Parallel Stories: A Novel

by Peter Nadas

  Among the abandoned objects, the haunting soul of the missing objects spoke to her in the warm early summer night.

  Exhaustion or happiness, she didn’t know which, was making her want to cry.

  Everything of the past sat here with her in the night, trapped between the bleak walls, among the furniture that was temporarily staying in this apartment.

  She completely forgot about the annoyingly handsome man in her room.

  Her life was here with her, along with all her earlier lives and the memories of her earliest life. A life she had spent within strange walls, among strange odors and strange objects whose history she could not have known, or anyway whose remaining traces simply had no historical context for her.

  She forgot about the blanket, whose proper name, in her own dictionary, would have been pokróc, a bedcover made of fur and coarse wool.

  She could not properly learn the names of objects, therefore they signaled their existence to her as senseless obstacles. In her mother tongue, she could not comprehend why in certain life situations it would make sense to say blanket instead of pokróc, and sometimes the incomprehensible filled her with hatred. At this moment she sensed something of the world, however, enthralling in its incomprehensibility and beyond the objects’ material worth, usefulness, names, and existence, beyond all personal sentiments. Her bare feet made pleasant contact with the parquet floor, which produced a warm, ticklish feeling where the edges of the dried-out oak laminas pressed into her soles. She could not have known what sort of moistness had evaporated from the wood, but she had a definite notion about the history of drying out. Even Mrs. Szemző could not have known anything of that since she had escaped much earlier and by the time the event occurred she had been taken away along with her two sons. Gyöngyvér swiveled around on the piano stool, which Mrs. Szemző had bought from a junk dealer long after the war was over. She wanted to cry but the tears would not come, and therefore neither anger nor hatred could surface either. In the Szemzős’ villa on Dobsinai Road only those objects had remained that were not easy to move, which is why she still had the piano, but the piano stool that Madzar had designed later, along with all the other original furnishings, had disappeared.

  Gyöngyvér was sitting on the piano stool made for young ladies which Mrs. Szemző had bought as a replacement, remembering the ones she knew in her youth. There were countless chains of causation in the world and they were not perceivable in sequence yet were not imperceptible either. At this moment, Gyöngyvér may not have known what her senses were registering, but, like other people, she felt something definite and therefore formed certain suppositions.

  She instantly looked for a possible intonation in place of crying, a vocal passage in her own range reminiscent of shouting, beseeching, or praying; she accompanied her search by tapping two consecutive keys at a time on the piano. She was chasing after a single note or semitone but did not know what she was looking for, while the old piano stool creaked meekly on the well-worn parquet floor.

  With her buttocks, she enjoyed the cool leather of the stool, though after a while the contact with the cool cowhide again revived in her bladder the urge to urinate. She had nothing more to let dribble out of her. Her bladder would have liked to inundate the leather on the piano stool.

  She wouldn’t have budged but would have just let it all out.

  The urine would first collect on the stool and then drip down from it.

  She would listen to the trickling.

  She saw it; she saw immeasurable amounts of fluid flowing out.

  She became alarmed at the mere desire for a flooding.

  She had to repress, squeeze back into herself the heat of her burning slit, which made her posture rigid.

  She stared out into the night as if watching a movie about her frightened and irritated self.

  A sliding glass-paned door opened from the hallway into the living room, whose own wide window, encompassing and framing the entire room, looked up at the empty sky.

  Gyöngyvér could not imagine her own home, but wherever she lived, she always had to imagine it anew.

  Except when she was singing.

  A future home, the home of a famous opera singer, refused to take shape in her mind. Whenever she thought about this, what she remembered was an old, large, worn iron key and bluish-purple lilies on the silk wall tapestry ripping loudly under her hands. In the castle at Tiszadob* they had to tear all the silk tapestry off the walls, and in their enjoyment they screamed and yelled happily together with their instructors, along with the sound of ripping silk.

  She could not shake the thought that their enjoyment had meant pain for the silk.

  Together, they were busy girls and their instructors freeing this castle, where they lived and worked, from the dark tyranny of the sinister Countess Katinka Andrássy. The windows were closed because Mrs. Szemző was afraid of sudden storms. The pervasive fragrance of valerian in the stifling air may have been the same fragrance that had eaten into Mrs. Szemző’ s every belonging.

  Here, in the heat trapped between the buildings, the night had no cool edge, yet she shuddered a little.

  One of the tin-helmeted towers of Palatinus Mews planted itself in the empty sky and, as if pinged by the moonlight, glittered in the darkness.

  Madzar used the soles of his feet to try to overcome or at least understand the strange floating of the apartment; he stamped, treaded, and trampled on the floor.

  He was walking systematically back and forth across the well-laid parquet because he wanted to feel clearly what caused the sense of floating. He listened to the entire building, to how it rustled and made other small noises; without a stethoscope he auscultated the building’s heartbeat, as it were, listened to its echoes, the trembling of water pipes and the gurgling of drainpipes. He let out shouts of various lengths and strength. He did not find this pleasant. The otherwise attractive glass cylinder of the stairwell behaved like an ear trumpet, brutally amplifying the tiniest sounds, elongating them, repeating them individually. Given the interior proportions, the poor quality of the materials, and the lack of insulation, noises within the apartment were received by the cold reinforced concrete and reradiated back into the apartment in the form of imperceptible vibrations. The interior spaces therefore did not project a sense of proper enclosure, had no warmth, and did not provide a feeling of security.

  A future tenant would be exposed to irritations for which there would be no remedy. A building might possess several characteristics that a person, though experiencing them, refused to acknowledge, and then it might seem as if the person was creating his frequent and serious bothers on his own, not realizing that the architecture was at fault.

  If the ceiling had been higher by just twenty centimeters, the partitions by, say, thirty centimeters, the sound box would not have been so unpleasant. But neither the owners nor the builders had clarified the relationship of the interior to the exterior, which led to fatal disproportions. They had used the idea of functionality to hide their own wretchedness and their profit motive, and this infuriated Madzar.

  As if they considered disproportion the incontestable reality of things.

  He could think of no architectural statement more irresponsible.

  Light was the only thing of any worth here. Strong saturated light whose sources were, of course, decipherable, and one would have to make a thorough examination of the surroundings. Direct light mingled with two indirect lights that had a completely improbable, unreal general effect. He could begin there. But no, he could not, because he would have felt he was merely doing something clever in an emergency situation of unknown proportions.

  The problem remained: could he do the job with impunity. The light was indeed very good; he’d hate to give up on it.

  I really can’t find it in my heart to do this job, he told the woman flatly.

  And, to be honest, I am not very interested in this whole spiritual-poverty business, this whole emergency situation that has become permanent in
this country and even put down roots.

  Not my cup of tea, he said in English.

  It presents conditions I don’t care to deal with, conditions I don’t know what to do with.

  You’d rather not touch it at all, said Mrs. Szemző quietly but pointedly.

  Unguarded contacts, of course, always have their peculiar hazards.

  Maybe you’re right, said the architect, as a person with long experience in avoiding potential friction by being agreeable. I don’t like walking into an unknown. But even that doesn’t signify much, since I sense no danger.

  Oh, go on, belittle it, continued the woman insistently. But don’t misunderstand me: you may walk away from the task as far as I’m concerned, I don’t want to force you to do anything. I probably wouldn’t have the talent to do so in any case.

  Which made the man blush.

  Still, he could not completely disregard the woman’s brazen manner.

  Perhaps you’ll understand, he said more coolly, that this is not my egoism. I just can’t clarify other people’s extremely unclear situations.

  But I do. Of course I understand.

  I can’t poke around in it now, after the fact. The building is a finished thing, I can’t fix it. What I work with is only matter, nothing else, cold and indifferent matter, but it’s not like a hat or dress that one can alter according to one’s needs. What’s in a building—its organizational concept, Zeitgeist, and so on—isn’t as flexible as the soul.

  He turned red in his anger.

  What right has this pampered woman to make her pointed remarks.

  His plebeian conscience was protesting. His exceptionally smooth white skin had a reddish tint that made him prone to blushing. Perhaps this was the only trait that showed his strong personality as vulnerable. Not only could he not stop himself from blushing, but he had no idea how to hide it. Which, unfortunately, he attributed to his low origins. The blushing would unexpectedly gnaw at his sense of security, ambush him, and then in successive waves thrust him deeper and deeper into embarrassment.

  This is the first generation of architects since classicism, he said more loudly than was necessary, that does not define itself by representation or decoration. Architecture is not a style, but its practitioners here live in that delusion. The church and the aristocracy no longer stand in their way. This is tremendous, an irrevocable change for the better. The twentieth-century way of formulating and expressing itself is in systems and structures, a functioning system of interdependent parts like a living creature, an organism itself—which architecture must organize according to some concept, of course. The unfortunate bunglers who built this place, to use an historical example, should have solved the problem that the March Youth didn’t solve in 1848*: how to create personal proportions, how to complete the bourgeois revolution. For me, what was done here instead, please forgive me, is very heterogeneous and unclear.

  Also impure. And I hope you understand that I’m not thinking primarily of moral conditions. I don’t accept your historical explanation either, because I’m interested not in history but in the substance and condition of things.

  He pretended to be raising his voice against the wind, but in fact he was trying to suppress his anger. Once again, he had come up against a patrician woman, just as he had in Rotterdam. Who in her completed personality had indeed completed the revolution.

  He was struggling against his blushing and broke out in a sweat, realizing that once again he had fished out for himself the same kind of woman.

  If I understand you correctly, you draw a strict distinction between individuality and personality, or the person’s egoism. You hit the nail on the head. This is indeed a risky undertaking. You say that you must separate your own egoism even from your personal needs.

  Absolutely.

  You don’t consider any collectivism as valid.

  I wouldn’t even ask whether I do.

  Not the collectivism of egoism, then. For you, only personal agreements are valid.

  Exclusively, replied the man, and this time he blushed in joy.

  This woman understands him, after all; he’ll give it a try.

  That is the only principle I can follow, this is the spirit of our time, I believe, the organizing principle. I must make it fit between the communal and the private, as much as possible with the help of the cleanest and clearest agreement between the concerned parties. In other words, I’d be satisfied with an offer. I propose a possible contract or agreement.

  Luckily for him, another strong gust of wind blew in their direction, catching his heavy, full head of hair. Which gave him a reason not to twirl and crumple his hat, but to do something else with his suppressed joy and enthusiasm.

  He grabbed at his hair.

  Simultaneously Mrs. Szemző grabbed her hat, though the wind wouldn’t have swept it off. As if she were copying the other person’s diversionary gesture because she too had something to conceal. But this made her blush deeply.

  Mainly because first came the gesture and only after that her realization of why she’d made it.

  In each other’s eyes, they could not have been more exposed.

  I think you go too far with psychology. I find it provocative but admit it’s on the right track, continued the man, smiling. His voice was warm and strong. But I may be thinking of these things that concern us both in a more simple, objective, and if I may say so primitive way.

  This remark managed to arouse Mrs. Szemző’s anger.

  No, no, she said, indignantly and almost harshly, when it comes to thinking, I tell you, everyone thinks the same way. At most, some people prefer their simpler thoughts, others their more refined ones when it comes to saying them aloud. But this has nothing to do with whether they think objectively or subjectively.

  Now suddenly and mutually they were angry at each other for what they saw as the other’s lack of comprehension.

  But they could not rid themselves of the pleasant feeling that they did not have to vent or experience their anger as enemies. It was as if they had to carry out the command of a strange power, but not with anything like the same conviction. Madzar obeyed as a courtesy to the strange power; Mrs. Szemző was guided by a sense of professional responsibility.

  At the same time they also realized it made no difference that they were expressing themselves so politely, circumstantially, and very intellectually. The pleasure had grown so great that words could not stand in its way or curb it. They did not understand what was happening between them. In other words, they had to acknowledge that what was happening under the overcast sky in the spring wind was very different from what they had had in mind earlier in the morning, and also very different from what they were talking about.

  As if they were slipping between mental and physical pleasure.

  After all, thought the man, who hadn’t yet noticed that he was attracted to this woman. His lightly starched, carefully ironed white silk poplin underpants that came halfway down his thighs did restrain, though could not prevent, an erection. He had to admit that he found the woman quite ugly, though unusually intelligent and independent. But precisely for these reasons, a woman like this was not his type, or at least this is what he wanted to believe about himself. The underpants pressed his erect cock against his thigh, drawing the foreskin back from the tip. It will get caught like that. I won’t pay attention to it. I must not pay attention to this now, he thought.

  It rarely happened to him that because of an erection he’d be confused about his own intentions.

  Perhaps, if I were a revolutionary, Bolshevik, syndicalist, anarchist, or something of the sort, I could go on a little adventure like this, he said, laughing. In fact, with his laughter he was begging the woman’s pardon and showing her his strength and desire too, with a display of his full set of teeth. Then I could really get into it, obviously, because I’d want to change or save the world. Or wipe out and repair everything that others have done before me. I’m no communist. That’s not the way I think. I need cle
ar frameworks. And supporting them in the background, of course, there must be unambiguous agreement. There is no urban plan that is not based on thousands of important pacts. What ensures the durability of buildings is not the stone or the concrete but the security of the world order. And if I can’t find these necessities here, or if they turn out not to be clean enough, then I’ll go someplace else.

  That is why I decided as I did. I hope you understand.

  From a distance, standing by the neo-Baroque fountain they seemed like a couple of those practiced lovers who break up for good at least twice a month. Probably neither of them noticed how unjustifiably close they were to each other. They were obviously trying to keep a distance.

  Actually, they both leaned back, away from each other, yet their legs and hips remained too close.

  This must have created a certain aura around them; on occasions such as this, the body releases incidental scents. Yet this is not why their situation had become so complicated. Their clothing, whose quality and character were comically similar, also reinforced the feeling of mutuality, which meant not that they were becoming similar but that they were finally realizing how similar they had been from the beginning.

  It was preparing to rain on this overcast spring morning, but it did not.

  They both wore sand-colored Burberry coats, designed for spring and autumn, which differed only in their cut, and they both had on dark hats; the man held his in his hand.

  In those days, women’s hats were often worn low on the forehead, the brim pulled down so that the features of the face were taken into the protection and shadow of the hat. The woman bowed her head slightly and looked up from the shadow of her hat into the man’s pale-green eyes. As a protection, with both hands she pressed her pocketbook to her chest. What was considered fashionable in those days in a female figure was a slender, elongated, and overrefined silhouette. Irma Arnót was not beautiful, not even in her youth, but she had a beautiful silhouette, exactly as fragile and graceful as that era coveted.

  The wind now swept away, now intensified the man’s scent. It had in it something of the cigar smoke of the Britannia, that old-fashioned hotel on Teréz Boulevard, also a barber’s shaving cream, along with lavender aftershave, and then among many unfamiliar shades the scent’s heavier, dominant, all-powerful central aroma, in which the skin’s nearness can be deciphered. They were already past the point where they listened to each other’s intentions and the secret signs signaling them. But at this stage it would have been inconvenient for either of them with a careless move to step out from behind their defenses and put their cards on the table. They would find that stupid and irresponsible, no matter which of them might propose it, very brutal and ill mannered. After all, one was not put on earth just to be in heat and to mate. Though they happen to have reached the age when many people might ask what other reason was there; does our life have any other conceivable and worthy goal besides this. Both protested instinctively against the emptiness of life, and therefore they were characterized not so much by what they did with each other but by what they denied themselves, by what they consciously renounced.